


Spinne am Morgan

by tvsn



Series: H+S [7]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, I've always wanted to tag a modern au with that disclaimer, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 18:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13840443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/pseuds/tvsn
Summary: Coiffeur and stylist Freddie Morgan exchanges gossip with a tabloid editor in a cheap hotel room which he has transformed into a salon to service the wedding of the season. He develops something on an obsession with the ginger mullet of a certain groomsman and conspires to get the unsuspecting Simcoe under his scissors and, perhaps, his sheets.A not-quite-romance for people who are not-quite-royalists.





	Spinne am Morgan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reinette_de_la_Saintonge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/gifts).



> This is a[nother] side saga playing with the small characters who appear periodically in one of those long works of fanfiction that you may have heard of but are unlikely to ever read. Although a knowledge of that from which ‘Spinne am Morgan’ stems is not imperative in any way, it might be worth mentioning that ‘Hide and Seek’ takes place in March, 2016 and deals with the interpersonal relationships of people living in a small suburb in which a US Senator disappears under mysterious circumstances. There are multiple political and economic reasons involved in why the Pentagon has no immediate interest in locating this particular public servant, many involving the residents of Setauket and influencing their actions. In other words, you can expect a few scattered references to yesterday’s news (election cycles, trade deals and the like.)  
> In-universe, a wedding between a local bartender and a visa applicant takes place roughly three weeks after the initial crime, which is where we find ourselves (and Freddie!) this morning.  
> But you needn’t concern yourself with all that! Oh, no! This is the simple story of a visiting hairdresser who sees his chance to be a hero from the bathroom window of a cheap hotel. 
> 
> We still have to do 'the thing', though: this chapter contains a causal discussion of sex and a few fantasies that err in that direction.
> 
> I do ever so hope you enjoy.

“ _Highlight? I have finally – finally - achieved adulthood, perhaps in the only true sense of the word,_ ” Freddie Morgan heard a woman’s voice say over the roar of the dehumidifier built into the bathroom lighting circuit of this particular room in the Albany Holiday Inn. He stood on the toilet seat, knees and back buckled, making his best attempt to extend himself from the small second-storey window, the only one that opened in his room. Thus far, he had succeeded in his goal of not setting the building ablaze with the cigarette which a sign on the door told him he was not to smoke, a logic which went beyond ordinary public health regulations. The hotel room itself had no ventilation and the windows were painted shut – a measure, Freddie supposed to detour the occupants from attempting suicide. As to why another, who, sleeping on a thin mattress that creaked with every slight movement made in search of comfort would decide the night to be their last, Freddie could not say. If he finished his fag to find a bridesmaid making adjustments to her hair upon returning to the bedroom, however, he considered it highly possible that he would take out his lighter again and blow them all to kingdom come in a haze of stagnant hairspray.

 _“I hate weddings!”_ the woman echoed his own inner sentiment. _“That is it isn’t it? That is how you know the magic fantasy that define youth have abandoned you to deadlines and sales quotas and bloody solicitors.”_

 _“Is that a slight against the bride herself?”_ a man asked.

_“How could it be? I haven’t even spoken to her. You?”_

_“Oh I’m fine with it,”_ he laughed. _“I was listening to The Ramble when I went for a run this morning – get this: there has been a twenty percent increase in the number of girls enrolled in association football since it came out that Edmund proposed to Anna after a league match. Think on it, yea? In ten, fifteen years England could win the Women’s World Cup. Our new duchess might be mother to a golden generation of woman’s sport.”_

 _“You buying into all that?”_ she snorted.

 _“Unlike you, I take some hope in the whole idea that my dream came true for someone else. A girl from a good background with no great love for the subject she was forced to read at an elite university finds herself broke, living on her best friend’s couch and about to lose her business but then catches the eye of a prince in disguise? Bitch, I want to_ be _Anna Hewlett. If I were a little girl I would without doubt ask my parents to sign me up for ‘soccer’.”_

Freddie extinguished his much-deserved cigarette on the outer window frame before flushing it down the toilet, still smelling the stomach acid as he lifted the lid. Before returning to the gas chamber (as he had begun to refer to it the second time the bride in question bid her breakfast adieu in the wee hours in which he had trimmed, pinned, curled and sprayed her thick hair into submission) he fiddled with the window a bit, trying to open it wider; hoping that he could encourage enough of the product stench into making its escape before the pastries Peggy had brought up from the breakfast buffet left him in a similar fit of sick.

Cool air rushed in rather than out of the creek he created with the full of his strength. Freddie had not realized how dry his eyes were until a dashing figure caught them from the car park his room overlooked. He was six feet at least, a long frame of lean muscle in a slick suit, carrying, no doubt something even more befitting of his beautiful body in a black garment bag. His wavy hair was a web of contradiction. Freddie had never quite seen such colour. It was as though the fire in which this god had been forged continued to smoulder in messy curls of an unfortunate set of lengths. The mullet indicated to him that the hair was virginal, that it had never seen bleach, dye – or, from the looks of it, a blow dryer. Suddenly he felt his fingers tingle, no longer tired form the eight identical up-dos he had just spent the past six hours pinning.

He had to have him.

More precisely, he had to have him in his chair.

“Ladies,” Freddie said as he emerged, by greeting the two stragglers sitting in front of the bedroom’s long desk that a series of mirrors he had brought up from Philadelphia transformed into a vanity, “My price has come.”

Through the bride and her maids had been seen too, he knew from prior experience he could expect small requests like these all day thanks to the sign he left on his door. He hoped the vision he had spotted in the car park knew where to come looking for him, debating, briefly, if he might put a placard advertising his services up in the lobby.

“I get that a lot,” the young man who believed in the fairy tale of women’s soccer winked in response to his announcement. Freddie, assessing what he saw, could not have been less interested, conventionally handsome as the man might prove with a bit of his attention and skill. He wiped the relaxer the man seemed to intend to use on himself from his hand, scolding that he would see what he could do for him in a moment as he passed on his way to the window shut with paint in hopes of getting a better glimpse of the dragon he had clearly been sent to slay.

“Is he part of the bridal party, too?” Freddie indicated with a slight nod and a sultry tone. The man stood, looked and laughed. “Oh, most defiantly. Best man I’d imagine.”

“John?” the woman, who would be beautiful if not for her expression asked with an innocence Freddie believed was forced when she continued, “I’ll pay you a thousand pounds if you can have me presentable by the time he makes his way up here.”

She sounded desperate. Loath as he was to look away from the man on the pavement, Freddie Morgan was a friseur of the highest order. After disappointing his parents by announcing  at the dinner they had thrown in celebration of his Harvard acceptance letter that he still planned to go to beauty school, his best friend (whom he had pretended to date since freshmen year in service to both of their social interests) had written up a ‘Hairpocratic Oath’ for him. Having sworn on a pun at seventeen, Freddie was not about to betray its promise at twenty-two. Not when his parents had cut him off before he had gotten up the courage to officially come out.

“Honey, it might take more time than that, but for a thousand dollars, presuming you can both hold your breath in here, I can make this mistake look like it never happened before your boyfriend thinks to knock,” he answered as his eyes darted between two sets of equally messy curls that reminded him upon examination of the way his mattress creaked at night.

Her eyes and mouth widened at once. Freddie gave them a knowing smile, intending it to be a comfort. He knew too well what it was to have strangers chastise.

“Oh! Ew! You’re ill, you are!” the man exclaimed after a moment’s silence before offering up a string of expletives.

Ignoring the outburst, his companion informed Freddie in more refined language that the ginger outside was her former fiancé, that she was the editor of Britain’s most-bought tabloid and the man in the room was a semi-regular feature in her publication. She was polite but spoke with an assertive disinterest, as people who carried such sums in cash often did. Freddie would have charged her seventy dollars for the cut, cure and colour it was clear to him she had been putting off for years, at least, from any professional worth the name of his trade. Examining the hair itself, it was clear to him that she had, at some point, tried to colour it at home, likely with too little cream, defiantly purchased in the wrong tone for her colouring. Freddie wondered if she had seen her first grey and panicked as brunettes in their mid-to-late twenties so often did. He wondered if the tone was instead in homage to the all-American girl a hasty engagement had thrust into the spotlight, and, if so, how many corrections he would be preforming back in his own studio in the coming months when the world had moved on to something new.

“Well, Darlin’ – in that case, do I ever have some gossip for you,” Freddie smiled as he produced a fresh towel and a smock. Chatting up the clientele was part of his job, and he was speaking under oath as it were. “Two of the bridesmaid are sleeping with the same man and with what was coming out of Anna’s own mouth I’d say the sudden timing of these nuptials … well, I’ll elaborate if you promise to print my name as a source,” he winked. Before he could stop himself, he continued off-script, “But first you have to tell me – is that John’s natural hair colour? The rest of his features seem so pale in comparison. I might be smitten.” The modal, he knew, was unnecessary. Freddie was as infatuated with the fiery crown as he had ever been with any item of covet. A light blush rose to his cheeks hinting at the blaze in his heart. He considered the colours those glorious locks might take on dampened, if they could even be cut by mere steel. Pages of possibilities opened in his mind as he considered how much of the length he could leave while still gifting the Adonis-incarnate who lingered outside the style which he surely lacked. The woman looked unamused, but this, he reasoned, would surely change once he began the process of recreation.

“I can assure you no Englishman would volunteer himself to the life of a ginger,” the chav by the window smirked in response, glancing behind him as he did as though it were possible for the colour to belong to anyone else. Clearly, he was unconfident in his own critique. Freddie too was jealous, but his envy took on an air of generosity. He wished to make improvements on the most beautiful man he had ever seen, if only for the pleasure of having done so. How terrible, he considered, might it been for him as well had he not relentlessly pressured the passions that kept his lust from being perverted into such hatred?

He shook his head by way of a reply. “I would gladly sign a deal with the devil for a hue like his. Have to say it – this feels like a punishment for my arrogance, building not one but eight towers of babble out of ladies’ tresses in a single morning. I should have known no mortal could approach such colour with chemicals.”

“Well, I don’t need you to ‘tease it to Jesus’ as you Americans say, I just want a blow out,” the woman instructed, snapping Freddie’s attention back to her with a strike of the same three fingers he noted with a measure of discomfort that her not-lover lacked. Freddie ran his hands though her thick dark curls to assess the request, not trusting them not to break his brush.

“Here,” the young man said, showing him a photograph on an old Blackberry. “She has been trying to look like my sister since she was thirteen. This is what she is after.”

Freddie studied the picture, imagining both photograph and device artefacts form half a lifetime earlier.

“Not exactly … but exactly. Can you do that?” the woman pouted prettily to his absolute horror. The style did not suit her features at all.

“I can do better,” he assured her. “Do you trust me?”

“Sure,” she smiled. She paled, however, when he reached for a pair of scissors, as women’s often did.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe it,” she said, fighting a smile with all of her strength. “Ban, you’re bloody gorgeous! Who knew?”

“Honestly? Everyone. Watch,” he grinned, “now she is jealous.” Freddie wondered if that had been the man’s objective, for it had certainly been his.

“Wait,” he answered as he studied the results of his efforts. The young woman, who had introduced herself only as Effie, had likely not had dared to alter her appearance much since whatever arbitrary date had been her first with the John of whom she would not speak. It fit a standard pattern to which the hairdresser was accustom. She let her vanities become paranoid at the suggestion of change. Whether this was in response to a big event or comprised her general nature (as her companion seemed to suggest) was not his concern. He could convince her of his creative talents. She would not be the first, or even the worst that morning.

“I am,” Effie admitted. “I’m jealous of your rediscovered beauty and of every bird you are sure to bring to bed tonight,” she said as she stuck out her tongue. “Seriously though,” she softened, pitch rising to sweeter tones, “do what you need, Mr Morgan, you’ve made me a believer.”

“Oh it was nothing. I had the same thing with a member of the bridal party, and lady-friend – I have had toddlers put up less of a fuss,” Freddie continued to chitchat as he made a few small adjustments to his current project. “Now, granted it was around seven o’clock, no idea how this girl is once the coffee kicks in, but she comes up with Peggy just as I am finishing the bride. Gushes – just gushes to Anna in some kind of creole how gorgeous she looks so I told her, well take a seat Honey, your next. I have never seen such an instantaneous shift,” he told, echoing the drama with his tone. “Apparently, I was ‘not touching ‘er ‘air’ because I ‘couldn’t ‘andle ze texture’. So I am like, wow, okay,” he paused, pulled a pair of tweezers from his apron pocket and proceeded to make a few tweaks to a pair of almost-enviable eyebrows, careful to resume his quick pace of speech before the stunned solider could find place to object. “First off, I went to beauty school in Philly. My first job was in a salon catering to clients of colour. But she would not listen so I went – alright, let me do Peggy quickly because this is clearly a waste of time. Again, she proceeded to react with the superfluous excitement over how fly I’ve made her other friend look. But I’m not touching her. Oh no. Anyway, then Abigail shows up, and I’ve been doing her hair since I was twelve.”

“Twelve?” Ban asked. Freddie frowned, not at the question itself, but at the fact that he missed a target set into sudden motion.

“I’ve known what I wanted to be since I was five or six. No point wasting time or opportunity, right? Parents were in _complete_ denial though. Let. Me. Tell. You. They made me apply to their alma mater, hoping that I’d follow them into a life of debt and routine. Sometimes, honestly, I wish that had been the case.”

“Trust me, mate. Not worth it. I wish every day I’d never set foot in uni.”

“You didn’t graduate,” Effie offered with mock encouragement.

“I didn’t want to go.”

“No. Your problem is at it has always been that you osculate between boredom and disinterest until arriving at something and then being … a little _too_ decisive. Frighteningly so. Freddie? Tell him he should go into politics,” she teased.

“Having grown up among the party elite, I am but certain those are the very characteristics one looks for in a candidate … provided of course that you are good at fundraising,” the coiffeur offered with a hint of irony.

“Ah, there I’m out,” Ban sighed, feigning disappointment. “In all sincerity, I respect you for following your dreams.”

“Eh … talk to me after you style eight women after a long drive and four hours sleep,” Freddie paused. “I’ve been doing hair and make-up as far back as I can recall. Abigail moved in with the Shippens when she was fifteen as part of a pro-life add campaign and as – well my parents never let me pay with dolls when I was little so it just worked out that I got my fix on all the neighbour girls to whom Abigail became a part. To make a long story longer, I’ve known her hair since way before this little would-be Rhianna could likely introduce herself in English. So I go about my business with Abby, the same as I did on Anna and Peggy whilst Aberdeen tried to imitate me - refusing my help all the while. Suddenly bitch is just – ‘oh! Oui! Trés baguette’ – or whatever and,” he held up his hand, “ _actually_ starts demanding that I hurry up and finish so I can do her. Girlfriend, I took my dear sweet time on dear Abby, probably more than I needed, and then, I did Sally Townsend and Mary Woodhull and I would have done the entire rest of the party who had arrived by then before glorifying Aberdeen with my Midas touch but,” he stopped midsentence for a final evaluation. “Okay, you’re done, Boo. If your offer is still open I might now consider it,” he winked, moving that the lad could see himself in the mirror.

Freddie always like this part best of all. In the past half hour he had learned, in addition to the fact that the man had been nearly as objecting to Oxford as he had been to Harvard, that he had been a commissioned officer in the army until a crippling injury bared him from active service and he had been forced into an advisory role. He guessed that the same wound caused him some measure of difficulty with the devices the cut he had previously indicated he had grown up accustom to using. While Freddie was sure that he had not solved all of the world problems, bed-head would no longer follow the colonel to wherever he went to decide which separatist movement to arm and which to hinder.

“What offer?” the newfound narcissist asked as Freddie showed him how to style his own hair with his one fully functional hand as the boy stared at himself in the mirror as though the reflection were entirely foreign to him. “It is perfect,” he said, his smile seeming less seditious if only for a moment. Freddie brought his hand to his chest, waving it as he lowered himself into a theatrical bow.

“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked in earnest.

“I normally don’t get my hair cut in a $59 pro night hotel room,” Effie apologised without saying sorry.

“I normally don’t cut hair in a Holiday Inn, but for the right cause I’ll make an exception,” he told her before again turning his attentions. “So are we on for later, Loverboy?”

“I fear I’m spoken for, at least for the duration of the evening,” Ban replied with an air of diplomacy, indicating to Effie with a nod.

“I thought …” Freddie started. It took him a moment to snap himself out of the mental image of his two clients entangled on a bed (in itself perhaps louder than they were); an unwelcome intrusion that transformed into a fantasy of having this John in his own the instant he became conscious of his thoughts. He saw himself pulling John’s hair, which continued to manifest as an uneven clutter of copper curls that looked as though it had been cut with the sole intent of letting the poor man see. Freddie wondered if John was instead blind, or if he simply did not own a mirror, or if, despite his form and the finery he had been clothed in, John was unpretentious at a level that bordered piety. It would be a welcome shift.

“Oh, no – never in a hundred years,” Effie answered a question Freddie had lost interest in. “Ban is escorting me to the wedding, which is a work-related event for us both. We’ve just been friends for a long time.”

“That is the first time you’ve ever acknowledged as much,” Ban smirked.

“Well … people change,” Effie said in a tone that indicated she was not speaking of anyone in the room. Freddie felt guilty for the private infatuations he continued to indulge.

“So are you going to help me make him jealous?” she shifted, forcing herself to smile again.

“No,” Ban spat. “I’ll dance with you at the reception though if you know how to lead, and it is not like I am going to leave you alone at any point in the evening. Chivalry forbids it, beyond which, I personally support CETA and would not want to risk another protest when Trudeau seems ready to ratify. You’re stuck with me, Dear.”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” Effie stuck out her tongue.

“I legitimately don’t follow,” Freddie admitted.

“John Graves Simcoe is the reason everyone in London hates Canada,” Ban told him definitively.

“He is exaggerating.”

“I’m not. Or’rite, I was doing some work in South America a while back, ran into a civilian colleague as I might expected to. Anyroad, this is months after you and John first split – months! Room where we were staying wasn’t in the safest of places. I kept hearing sounds, getting up. Protective, you know. After a while she just goes to me ‘I have noise cancelling headphones you can wear if you need’ saying that after all the time spent listening to Alanis and Avril at full volume at strange hours she could sleep through anything. Few days later I come back to Britain – first thing I encounter when I go to check up on you is you and Mary-Anne in a heated argument over the actual definition of ‘ironic’. Trust me, everyone who was in your circle at the time hates Canadians. Everyone,” he elongated the final word.

“I should have asked your advice then as you _clearly_ have more experience ending things with the same person over, and over, and over,” Effie snapped causing Freddie to take a step back. “What do you do when you and Mary break up then?”

“Taylor Swift.”

“That explains so much,” her gaze narrowed. “I imagine after a few loops of ‘ _wee-eee are never, ever, ever_ ’ I’d do anything to get back together, too.”

“Oh I meant in a more literal sense,” he smirked.

“You’re kidding,” Freddie gasped. Effie’s expression informed him her friend was speaking in earnest. Too honest, the coiffeur gleaned, for her personal comfort.

“I’m not proud mate; that was the gist of her take on the whole affair as well. Barely had her dress off, I was done. It is usually the case for me to be honest, regardless of who I am with.”

“Why do you tell people things like that about yourself? I don’t know if it is worse to say to a friend or to a stranger!” She turned back to Freddie when she had finished her chastisement. “I’m sorry,” she swallowed.

“Don’t be,” he answered, “I’m interested.”

“Do you know what your problem is?” Ban asked Effie rhetorically. Freddie wondered if he was offering when the military attaché continued, “You need to have more bad sex. Loads more. Quick, void, disappointing for both parties. You still have this fantasy that every amorous connection has to be a pure expression of deep, all-concurring, all-consuming love. It is a contradiction to the reality of the act, if anything.”

“You don’t know what it was like,” Effie whispered, suddenly ashamed to meet either of their eyes. “When things were good between us. You don’t know what that is like and have no right -”

“No, of course not. You’re too pure to talk about such things and John is far too chivalrous. I roomed with this bloke,” he told, directing his gaze and attention momentarily to Freddie, “for seven fucking years. Not once did he ever speak of the act in terms that digressed from ‘sex is the expression of two souls joining’ or whatever such shite, which only tells me that the two of you have never actually had it, had you?”

“I have to agree,” Freddie interjected. “I think you could do far better. Actually I think both of you probably could if you put less, or in some cases any, effort in. You ready, Princess? Tell me all about this ex we have to conspire to make jealous.” Tell me, he thought, if his locks burn to the touch or simply smoulder.

“Tell me about these bridesmaids who are sleeping with the same man,” she countered.

“Oh!,” Freddie exclaimed. As badly as he wanted more details about John of the pre-modern euro-mullet and his seemingly dated ideas on what consisted the sexual experience, the task he saw for himself would be easier with Effie distracted and amused. “I was just getting there. This requires a bit of backstory though. Peggy and I? We are kind of like you two. Good friends, could easily fool people into thinking we were an item, could easily have been one if not for our differences in desire,” he said lightly, combing her scalp with his fingertips. “I probably don’t have to say this but I’m about as bent as they come and she – well she has been waiting forever and a day for Mr Right. Anyway, girl gave me a ring a few weeks ago telling me she found The One, and being besties with the bitch I naturally shared in her squeals of excitement but – okay, this stays in this room?”

“Of course!” his current client assured him.

“I know four people at this wedding: Effie, John – whom I am not on speaking terms with, the British ambassador - whom I am doing my level best to avoid, and Edmund - whom one has to keep a certain level of decorum around. Chatter away,” her date dismissed.

“Well then she got into the details,” Freddie paused for effect. “The man is about twice her age, has a pronounced drinking problem and just lost his job. Now there are very few occasions in which I can hear my father’s voice in my own assessments – he is uh, a Christian Fundamentalist who works for the RNC, which I imagine would mean little to a pair of Brits except you two bring trade agreements into a discussion on breakup songs – er, remind me later to link you up with a better playlist.”

“Will do.”

“Are you talking about Benedict Arnold?”

“No. It is _so_ much worse than the media is making it. Hearing about this guy … I found that I had a personal stake in traditional values that I would never otherwise have recognised which is saying a-lot,” Freddie emphasised. “But apparently he has great hair, a huge tra-la-la , and a Ph.D. so I just – whatever. She is my friend, I want her to be happy, and no one else was ever good enough for her standards so it was one of those situations where I just took her at her word. Then I got, or rather she got me, this gig. I met up with her two nights ago when I got in and was like ‘well, can I meet him?’” Freddie feigned the excitement of the moment before dropping into a tone deeper than his natural pitch. “No,” answered himself quickly, sharply. “He is in rehab. Okay. I’m not going to judge anyone taking steps towards self-improvement and she has enough problems with everything going on with Senator Arnold so I just let it slide and went back to gossiping about who from high-school got fat, you know – the usual. But then! This morning, who walks in to my salon but the _wife_ of the man Peggy says she is in love with. And girls - he is not in rehab; he is in an intensive psych ward. _And Peggy knew it_.”

With that, he took twelve inches of Effie Gwillim’s length in a single cut. Her “Oh my God,” came in a tone that told her she had yet to realise what he had done. Chatting up the clientele was part of his job, and Freddie had taken his Hairpocratic Oath with serious consideration.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know what today is? I just realised, we are on the two-year anniversary of Benedict Arnold’s disappearance. (!!!) You think shit would have wrapped up by now …
> 
> Anyway, let’s do some notes:
> 
>  **The [Football] Ramble** is the UK’s most downloaded independent sport podcast. It is also the kind of programme where such a statistic as the one Tarleton relays in the beginning would be quoted (but not sourced) and mocked incessantly. Brilliant stuff.
> 
>  **CETA** a free-trade agreement that would eliminate 98% of Tariffs between Canada and the EU if it enters into force.
> 
>  **[Justin] Trudeau** is the Prime Minister of Canada. (The one you thought was cute when he assumed office in 2015.)
> 
>  **The RNC** is the governing body of the Republican Party. At the time this story takes place, they had yet to nominate a candidate for the (coming) November election. Feels like 242 years ago now though, doesn’t it? ;)  
>  This work is a gift for Reinette de la Saintonge, who brought me on Freddie Morgan in a comment thread mostly focused on historical Simcoe’s hair in the Queen’s Rangers portrait. The title is a pun on a German idiom. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
